Eyes Open
by The Writer's Life
Summary: Reichenbach Angst: Sometimes keeping your eyes open can be the hardest thing in the world. Based on this idea: What if it was really Sherlock on the pavement after the fall, and he can see and hear everything John is doing?


**A/N: Ahhhh... so I was trolling Johnlock headcanons, and this happened. It's been ages since I've seen The Reichenbach Fall, but hey, the angst never ends. Anyways, enjoy!**

**Eyes Open**

_When Sherlock was a child and couldn't sleep, his older brother would give him riddles to solve before bed until Sherlock couldn't resist the urge to stay awake anymore. His brother would tell riddle after riddle, and Sherlock would challenge himself to keep his eyes open longer and longer every night. Even after his brother went away to University and the riddles ended, Sherlock would still stare at his ceiling at night and try to keep his eyes open until he couldn't fight it anymore. His eyelids would start to droop, and his eyelashes would tickle his face as he succumbed to the darkness. It was childish, he knew, but sometimes, keeping his eyes open was the hardest thing in the world, and Sherlock liked to conquer the impossible. _

It seemed that now, as he laid sprawled out on the sidewalk in front of St. Bart's Hospital, fake blood streaking his forehead and soaking his hair, his limbs contorted uncomfortably, a squash ball tucked under his aerm, that all his practice had paid off. He stared at the sky blankly as bystanders started to congregate around his "body", gaping and murmuring among themselves. All he did was stare up at the sky. It was a nice shade of blue, lighter than his scarf, and about the same shade as John's eyes. He focused on the color. Keeping his eyes open was easy. It was a typical locked-door mystery, a hit-and-run, a simple task that could be completed without even thinking. Even as concerned people manhandled his wrist and neck, checking for a pulse, Sherlock stared out of seemingly dead eyes.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please." John. Sherlock keeps staring. It was just like staying awake. He could do it, no matter how soothing and soft Mycroft's voice got.

"No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please."

John's voice sounded broken. Shattered. Shocked. Scared. Helpless. In Sherlock's head, John should have never sounded like that. He saw John struggling to break through the small crowd of people, and willed the people to keep him away. He couldn't do it. He couldn't face John with his eyes open.

He felt a hand grab his wrist, groping around for a pulse. It was John's hand. Sherlock wanted to close his eyes in the most desparate way. It was as if someone had submerged him in water, and was holding his head under. He needed oxygen, he needed to breathe.

Somebody pulled John's hand away, and Sherlock expected relief, but the universe wasn't so kind. Instead, somebody repositioned his body, and he got a full view of John's face. For a moment, he wished that he couldn't read faces so well. John's emotions were an open book - he could read the anguish, the fear, the incomprehension, and the unfiltered grief as plainly as if it was written on John's forehead. It hurt.

"Please, just let me..." John didn't finish the sentence. What had he planned to say? Let me see him? Let me check for a pulse again? Let me say goodbye? Sherlock pondered this as he watched John sink to his knees, supported by strangers arms. He couldn't close his eyes, because they would all know, and everything would have been for nothing.

Medics pushing a stretcher had arrived. They were in on the secret; they knew that Sherlock wasn't dead. Sherlock could feel his eyes burning.

"Jesus, no. God, no," John slurred. Sherlock nearly threw up. John was begging, for what he didn't know, but he was begging. For a moment, he wished that he could just sit up, and have a laugh about it. John would be livid, but not for long, and after, maybe they could go to Angelo's and eat dinner, and then go back to the flat. John could put on crap telly and Sherlock could sit there, not because he was interested in the program, but because he was with John.

It was too late, though. The fake medics were lifting him up, tossing his limp form onto the stretcher. Sherlock gathered one last look of John. He had pulled himself to his feet, and was staring after the stretcher in disgusted horror. It was the last look Sherlock got for nearly two years. He kept his eyes for the entire trip on the stretcher. Finally, they reached a secure room. People were chattering all around him. The medics were wiping blood away. Mycroft was waiting with a change of clothes. Molly was there.

Sherlock sat up.

John.

Sherlock let his eyes fall shut. The game was over.

_When Sherlock was an adult and was tracking down a psychopath's criminal web, he would close his eyes and picture a life he used to have. He would picture a girl with a brown ponytail in a white lab coat, a detective with a gruff voice, a kind, motherly lady who wasn't his housekeeper, but most of all, a man in jumpers who had changed his life. A soldier. A good man. His home. He liked to see how long he could keep his eyes closed, because he knew as soon as he opened his eyes, he would have to face the real world. When he opened his eyes, he would have to feel the pull of his eyelids and his eyelashes against his eyebrows. It was childish, he knew, but sometimes keeping his eyes closed was the easiest thing to do, and easy would bring him home. _

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